After The Well
by ilovecastiel18
Summary: A few missing scenes from during and after TFP. Sherlock and John have a moment after John is saved from the well, Sherlock helps Mycroft, etc. Scenes are connected, but not one long scene. Set right after John is saved from the well in TFP for the first chapter, the others are set after the whole incident. No Mary or Rosie, they both died from complications during birth. Rated T
1. The Well

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock, along with its characters, location, etc. are the property of BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own them, though I definitely wouldn't mind being on a first name basis with Benedict Cumberbatch ;)

 **Summary:** A few missing scenes from during and after TFP. Sherlock and John have a moment after John is saved from the well, Sherlock helps Mycroft, etc. Scenes are connected, but not one long scene.Set right after John is saved from the well in TFP for the first chapter, the others are set after the whole incident. No Mary or Rosie, they both died from complications during birth. Rated T because I'm paranoid.

 **A/N:** I don't usually like changing canon to set up a story, nevertheless to set up the scenes I have in mind I couldn't have Rosie around in 221B. These scenes are all connected, but they're more like interconnected one-shots rather than a continuous story. Set during and after TFP that are all in the same fic. I'm going to mark this fic as complete, but I may add a new chapter here and there if I get any motivation. This chapter is about Sherlock saving John from the well, and making sure he didn't get hypothermia from the cold water. Leave a review if you liked it!

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After The Well

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Chapter 1

The Well

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"John!" Sherlock yelled. He was standing over the well and looking down inside, seeing John struggling with the cold water that was up to his neck. "Hold on, John, I'm coming down!"

John turned his face away as Sherlock took off his coat and scarf and dropped into the well, bolt-cutters he had found in the house in his hand, just in case.

"John?" Sherlock touched his shoulder. John turned toward him. "Do you want me to cut the chain or the cuff?" Sherlock asked.

"Cuff." John croaked out. He was freezing.

"All right." Sherlock let go of John's shoulder. "You'll feel a pressure when I press the cutters into the cuff." With that Sherlock bent and dropped face first into the water. John felt something press his ankle into the side of the cuff, then heard a satisfying snap. He felt the same thing on the opposite side of his ankle before he felt a piece of the cuff break away so he could free his leg.

Sherlock came back up from underwater, his shirt sticking to his torso and his hair plastered to his forehead.

"John, are you strong enough to climb?" Sherlock asked, his hand once again on John's shoulder.

John slowly nodded his head.

"All right, you go first." Sherlock motioned for John to start climbing out of the well, releasing his shoulder once again. With a sigh, John heaved himself onto the wall and slowly began to climb. He thanked his army training, because his whole body was numb from cold, and he knew he wouldn't be able to climb out if he wasn't trained to do so.

After an agonizing ten minutes, John slowly heaved himself out of the well and rolled onto the grass. Sherlock following soon after.

After a moment, John saw Sherlock stand and move in front of John. He held his hand out.

"Come on, John." John groaned and took Sherlock's outstretched hand, pulling himself off the ground.

Once he was up, Sherlock moved over to a heap next to the well and picked it up, moving back over to John. He set the heap back on the ground and turned toward John.

"You're going to get hypothermia." Sherlock stated.

"Probably." John responded.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and moved forward. He motioned toward John's soaked coat. "May I?" he asked.

"Depends on what you want to do." John replied.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stepped forward, grasping the zipper of John's coat and pulling.

"What are you doing?" John asked incredulously.

"Making sure you don't get hypothermia." Sherlock finished unzipping John's coat (his fingers were really very numb) and peeled it away from John's shivering torso. He then proceeded to undo the buttons of his shirt one by one until he could also pull that away from John's body.

"Sherlock…" John started to protest.

"Hush, John." Sherlock snapped. He grabbed onto John's white undershirt and pulled it up and over his head so he was standing there in just his wet jeans. Sherlock then bent down and grabbed the heap on the ground, letting it unravel. John was briefly aware that in was Sherlock's coat before it was whipped around him and set on his shoulders. "Put it on." Sherlock commanded.

"But, Sherlock, this is your coat." John argued.

"Yes?" Sherlock questioned.

"Why would you be letting me wear it?" John asked, an incredulous look on his face.

Sherlock gave him a look like he was the dumbest person on the planet.

"Because you're cold and wet and bound to get hypothermia if you don't warm up. And my coat is only warm and dry piece of clothing around." Sherlock answered.

"You're cold and wet too." John replied, pushing his arms through the sleeved of the coat and pulling it tight around himself.

"You were in there much longer. I'll manage. I have Lestrade bringing us dry clothes from the flat. Until then I'll be fine."

"You'll give up being warm to make sure I'm comfortable?" John asked.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Of course, John. You're my best friend," Sherlock replied. "Also, the whole reason you were in that well in the first place was because you're friends with me, and that makes you a target for my sister. Naturally, I want to make sure you are safe and comfortable before attending to my own needs."

"You've come a long way, Sherlock." John replied.

"Thank you?"

John stepped forward and hugged Sherlock, wrapping his arms around his middle. He wouldn't normally hug someone like this, especially Sherlock, but he felt the need to, since he had just saved his life _and_ taken care of him.

Sherlock stiffened at first, not used to the contact, but he soon relaxed and wrapped his arms around John's shoulders. He wasn't very good at this, but he still enjoyed it.

They could hear sirens and helicopter blades in the distance while they stood there, hugging and sharing body heat.

Soon, Lestrade ran up to them with a bag of clothes in his hand. Sherlock turned out of the hug, keeping his left arm wrapped around John's shoulders.

John reached out and took the bag from Lestrade's hand, and the D.I. turned to leave.

"Hey," Sherlock spoke, making Lestrade turn and look at him. "make sure my brother is taken care of, will you? He's not as strong as he thinks he is." Sherlock asked.

"I will." Lestrade responded.

Sherlock stretched his right hand forward to grasp Lestrade's. "Thanks, Greg."

"Yeah…" Lestrade squeezed Sherlock's hand briefly before letting go and making his way back over to the SWAT team that had arrived with them.

Both Sherlock and John turned toward the house, making their way inside so they could change out of their wet clothes. Sherlock still had his arm wrapped around John's shoulders, and he felt John's arm snake around his waist.

They would survive this, as long as they were together.


	2. Nightmares

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock, along with its characters, location, etc. are the property of BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own them, though I definitely wouldn't mind being on a first name basis with Benedict Cumberbatch ;)

 **A/N:** This chapter will include Sherlock having a nightmare about TFP and everything Eurus did to him and the people he cares about. John hears him screaming and comforts him. I tried to keep them both in character, but Sherlock may be a bit OOC at the end. I'm not entirely sure. Review if you like it!

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After The Well

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Chapter 2

Nightmares

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He turned in time to see a gun pointed at the back of Mycroft's head.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock yelled.

"It's no use, Sherlock. Either your brother dies, or your best friend dies. If you don't choose, they both die." Eurus whispered. The gun had unfolded from the wall, and she was controlling it from the office.

"Sherlock…" Mycroft whispered.

"I won't do it. I won't shoot you. No matter our differences, I still care about you, and you're still my brother. I won't do it." Sherlock replied, a note of desperation in his voice.

"You need John, Sherlock. And Rosie needs you both. Just shoot me, brother mine." Mycroft replied, a small, sad smile on his face.

"NO!" Sherlock yelled, the gun pointed at his chin shaking slightly.

"Please? Do it for me, Sherlock. I don't want either you or John to die. It's for the best." Mycroft pleaded.

Sherlock slowly pulled the gun away from his chin, tears in his eyes. "Alright, alright, I'll shoot him. Just give me a moment. Please?" he asked Eurus. The gun at the back of Mycroft's head slowly folded back into the wall.

Mycroft sniffed and fixed his tie.

"Mycroft…" Sherlock started, stepping forward.

"It's fine Sherlock, brother mine." Mycroft cut across him.

Sherlock then did something entirely unexpected. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Mycroft.

Mycroft stiffened. He had never liked being touched, but he realized he was about to die, at the hands of his brother, and he knew Sherlock was trying to convey how badly he didn't want to do this. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held him tightly. For a long moment, neither of them moved, both caught up in the goodbye they had hoped would never happen.

Then, Sherlock whispered in Mycroft's ear. "I love you, Mycroft."

Mycroft stiffened for a moment at the unusual sentiment, but relaxed after a moment.

"I love you too, brother mine." Mycroft stepped back from the embrace. He stepped forward and shook John's hand before he backed up and braced himself.

Sherlock pointed the gun toward Mycroft's heart, a single tear dripping down his face. "I'm sorry, brother."

And he pulled the trigger.

The scene changed instantly, he never saw the bullet pierce his brother's chest.

He was running along the edge of the property of his childhood home, his breathing heavy and his face flushed. He had a painful cramp in his side, but he did not stop, and continued sprinting to a well off in the distance.

He knew if he didn't get there soon, John would drown. And he could not let that happen.

When he made it to the edge of the well, he caught his breath briefly before looking inside.

He couldn't see John; the water was too high.

Without a single thought toward his clothes, he jumped feet first into the well, hoping against hope that he would not hit John.

When he landed, he dove under the water and reached around. He felt John and trying to pull him above the surface, but it was no use. He was chained to the floor.

"John!"

…..

John awoke with a start, a bead of sweat on his forehead. He hears Sherlock screaming from downstairs, and he immediately jumped out of bed and sprinted to his room, barging through the door without knocking. The sight before him was not one he ever expected to see.

Sherlock was tangled in his bedsheets, twisting and turning in fright. He had beads of sweat dripping down his forehead, and tears in his eyes.

Without waiting to think, John rushed forward and sat at the edge of the bed. Sherlock wasn't just screaming, he was screaming his name on repeat, as if he was trying to wake him from a deep sleep.

Obviously a nightmare, and obviously involving John. Since they had just returned from Sherlock's childhood home a few hours earlier, where he was mentally tortured by his little sister, John didn't have to think hard about what Sherlock was dreaming about.

He gently grasped Sherlock's shoulders and shook him.

"Sherlock!" he yelled, trying to get the man's attention. He just seemed to thrash around harder. " _Sherlock! SHERLOCK!_ " John screamed.

Finally, Sherlock stopped thrashing, and his eyelids fluttered. John let go of his shoulders and grabbed his hand.

"Sherlock, mate, it was just a dream, you're alright, it's okay…" John whispered soothingly.

After a moment of desperately clinging to John's hand, as if holding on for dear life, Sherlock's eyes opened, and he realized where he was. He sat up, releasing John and burying his face in his hand.

John touched his shoulder lightly.

"Mate, are you alright?" he asked.

"Normally, I wouldn't even dignify that question with an answer, but seeing as you just woke me up from a _terrifying_ nightmare, I will indulge you. No, I am most certainly not alright." Sherlock spoke like he typically did, dripping with sarcasm, but John could hear the tremble in his voice.

John rubbed circles into Sherlock's shoulder blade with his thumb, trying to calm him down. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked.

Sherlock snorted. "Not particularly." He snapped, face still in his hands.

"It might help to talk about it, Sherlock, especially to a me, your closest friend. It helped me to talk to you when I lost…ya know…" John's voice hitched.

He still could not say Mary's name. He still remembered vividly when he was told his wife and daughter died due to complications while giving birth.

A tear dripped down his cheek, but he wiped it away, determined to help his friend.

Sherlock finally looked up, hearing John's voice crack. "It's nothing John, I'm fine." He replied.

"No, you're not, Sherlock, but if you don't want to talk about it that's fine." John responded.

Sherlock blinked. Maybe he did want to talk to John. After all, half of the dream was about losing him, and he didn't really want to suffer with this alone.

"It's just…you know it's hard for me, John…" Sherlock started.

"Take your time." John soothed, still rubbing circles into Sherlock's shoulder.

"Well, at first we were, Mycroft, you, and I, we were in that room where Eurus…she was going to make me choose. Whether to shoot…to shoot you or Mycroft. But it was different…." Sherlock was struggling to find his words.

John, being the patient, caring man he was, didn't interrupt, just continued to try to soothe Sherlock while he spoke.

After a moment, Sherlock continued. "There was a gun folded into the wall, behind the paneling. When I pointed the gun at my chin, the gun in the wall unfolded and pointed at the back of Mycroft's head. Eurus…Eurus said that if I didn't shoot either you or Mycroft, she would kill the both of you. Mycroft…he begged me to shoot him instead of you. I hugged him and told him I loved him…then…then I did…" Sherlock paused and sniffed, once again burying his head in his hands.

John saw this as a good moment to intervene.

"It's alright, Sherlock. You didn't have a choice. And it was a dream, it didn't really happen that way. Mycroft is alive, he's fine. It's alright." John moved closer to Sherlock and started rubbing his back. After a few minutes, John spoke again.

"When…when you were screaming, you…you were saying my name…?" John questioned.

Sherlock sniffed and lifted his head. "Well…the thing with Mycroft was only the first part of the dream…it changed after I pulled the trigger on…on Mycroft…" Sherlock took a moment to steel himself, grateful for John's silence. "After…it changed to me racing toward the…the well…trying to save you…but in the dream…you…you didn't survive…" his voice hitched on the last word, and a few tears escaped from his eyes. "I thought I'd lost you…"

"Jesus…" John whispered. He grabbed Sherlock's arms and turned him, pulling the detective into his chest. He heard a small sob escape Sherlock, and that made tears of his own fall from his eyes. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and held him tightly.

Sherlock always had total control over his emotions; to see him this broken was unnerving.

John rubbed circles in Sherlock's back while he whispered soothing words.

"It's alright, Sherlock. I'm okay, it was just a dream. I'm perfectly fine. A little cold, but fine. I'm alive, you didn't lose me, Sherlock…" John whispered. He felt Sherlock's arms snake around his waist, his sobs slowly subsiding.

After a few minutes, Sherlock tried to say something, but John hushed him, tightening his grip on the detective.

"Shhhh Sherlock. It's alright. I'm here. And I promise, I'm not leaving you." John whispered.

He felt Sherlock's grip on him tighten and he sighed, a small smile on his face. He was glad his best friend was finally okay with receiving physical comfort from him.

He knew that, eventually, everything was going to be alright.


	3. Headache

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock, along with its characters, location, etc. are the property of BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own them, though I definitely wouldn't mind being on a first name basis with Benedict Cumberbatch ;)

 **A/N:** This chapter takes place the day after the events of TFP, and Sherlock has a massive headache from all of his repressed memories flooding his mind. John helps him get rid of it, and talks to him about his memories. Very fluffy. Review if you like it!

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After The Well

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Chapter 3

Headache

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"Urgh!" Sherlock pulled his hands away from his temples and flopped back in his chair.

John looked up from his laptop to see Sherlock with a sheen of sweat on his forehead, his eyes scrunched closed.

A little concerned, he set his laptop aside. "Sherlock, are you alright?"

It was the day after the dreadful day playing Eurus's game, and he wasn't entirely sure Sherlock was coping well.

"No!" Sherlock yelled and winced. He groaned, rubbing his temples. "All of my repressed memories of Eurus are flooding my mind, and I have a _massive_ headache because of it." he groaned again.

John hesitated a moment, staring at Sherlock, before he abruptly stood from his chair and made his was over to the couch. He sat with his back to one arm of the couch, placing a pillow behind him. He then placed another pillow over his abdomen and groin, stretching one of his legs out against the back of the couch. The other he bent, placing his foot of the ground.

"Come here." He commanded.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up. "Why?" he questioned.

John sighed. "Just do it."

Sherlock stood and walked over to stand awkwardly in front of John. John looked at him for a moment before dramatically sighing and patting the place between his legs. "Sit." He commanded.

"What? _Why?_ " Sherlock questioned.

John rolled his eyes and grabbed Sherlock's wrist, gently twisting him and yanking him down on the couch, careful not to jar his head too much.

"Ah!" Sherlock groaned and held his head.

"Lay back." John ordered.

Sherlock looked at him questioningly.

"Just do it, Sherlock." John sighed.

Sherlock turned his back to John and slowly lowered himself down so he was leaning against him, his shoulders and upper back leaning into John's abdomen, and his lower back pressing into his groin.

"Now, what is the purpose of…" Sherlock started to question. His words died when John started softly carding his hands through his unruly curls.

Sherlock closed his eyes and gave a happy sigh, content on focusing on the hands carding through his hair. John had other plans.

"Now think, Sherlock. Go into your mind palace and sort through the oncoming memories. Place them where they need to be so they don't cause you pain, whether physical or emotional. I will be here to ground you whenever it becomes too much." John's fingers moved from Sherlock's hair to his temples, rubbing soft but firm circles into them.

Sherlock sighed. John, being a doctor, was exceptionally good at this. Before he entered his mind palace, he spoke.

"Thank you for this, John. It is appreciated. One more thing, if you could, will you switch between my hair, my temples, and my shoulders every few minutes. That way the pressure doesn't dull in my mind and I can focus on it, and your fingers won't cramp from doing the same thing constantly. This may take a while."

"You're welcome, Sherlock. I enjoy finally being able to do something for you. And I will switch back and forth, so the pressure doesn't fade into the background and you can focus on it when you need to. I will do this all day and night if I have to."

Sherlock turned and gave John a brief smile before he dove into his mind palace.

It was nice being able to ground himself whenever he needed to, because the memories he had to sort through were painful.

He remembered vividly every single time Eurus had hurt him when they were children, caused him physical or emotional pain, teased him, etc. He remembered searching for his friend when Eurus killed him. Poor Victor Trevor. He sorted all of his memories into files in the back of his mind, keen not to let them interfere with his daily life.

He constantly felt John's hands move from his hair to his temples to his shoulders, the timing perfect. Every time Sherlock was about to lose it, John's hands moved and grounded him.

He was at this for nearly three hours when he came across the memory of Eurus burning their house down in order to hurt Sherlock.

He pulled from his mind palace with a gasp. Instantly, John was leaning over his shoulder, his face filled with worry.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?" he asked.

Sherlock gasped again, a sharp pain searing through his forehead, not unlike the pains Harry Potter is said to get in his scar. "Fine. Just…fire." Sherlock managed to squeeze out. He reached up and grasped John's hand, pulling it down over his shoulder so he could hold it. "Just…give me a minute." Sherlock was fighting to control his breathing.

"Take all the time you need." John replied. He ran his free hand through Sherlock's curls, grounding him and trying to calm him down. The other hand was tightly grasped in Sherlock's. John squeezed back with equal force, trying to comfort his friend.

After a few minutes, Sherlock's breathing calmed, and he loosened his grip on John's hand.

"Sherlock?" John questioned, still running his had soothingly through the detective's curls.

"Mm?" Sherlock responded.

"Are you okay, mate?"

"I'm…better. I'm just trying to calm myself before I go back in and sort that memory. Then I just have to sort my memories of yesterday." Sherlock responded shakily.

"You don't have to do that today, Sherlock. You can take a break…" John started.

"If I don't finish this today I will just wake up the same way I did last night, screaming my head off because of nightmares. I don't want to put this off." Sherlock interrupted.

"Alright, Sherlock. You do what you have to do. I'll be here if you need me." John responded. He continued to card his hand through Sherlock's hair.

After a few moments, Sherlock squeezed John's hand before letting go and going back into his mind palace. He felt John's fingers shift to his temples. He was grateful, because he still had a pounding headache.

He controlled his breathing before he began to file away the memory of the fire. He felt his heart rate quicken, but he forced it to calm. He took care of that memory and the ones of the night before within forty minutes.

At last, he pulled out of his mind to feel John's hands carding through his hair once again.

"Thank you, John." Sherlock said.

John's hands left Sherlock's hair and came to rest on his shoulders.

"You're welcome, Sherlock. It was the least I could do. You saved my life last night, and many times before that. I never did thank you for saving me from that vest Moriarty put on me, or saving me, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson from the snipers by jumping (even though you could have told me you were alive), or from the bonfire Magnussen put me in…" he trailed off. "Or for saving me from the well last night. I really do owe my life to you."

"You've helped me more than you can ever imagine. Especially now, helping me sort through my memories and grounding me while I was in my mind palace." He reached up and grasped one of the hands on his shoulder.

"Consider us even, John."


	4. Mycroft

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock, along with its characters, location, etc. are the property of BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own them, though I definitely wouldn't mind being on a first name basis with Benedict Cumberbatch ;)

 **A/N:** This chapter will be about Sherlock visiting Mycroft and realizing he is far from okay. Brotherly love and comfort. Or as much as is expected from the Holmes boys. Mild language warning. Review if you like it!

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After The Well

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Chapter 4

Mycroft

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It had been four days since the incidents caused by Eurus. Sherlock had his memories filed, John had stopped shaking, and Eurus was back in her cell.

The only thing that was slightly disturbing to Sherlock was that he hadn't received a call yet from Mycroft.

Usually, the older Holmes brother prided himself on bothering his younger brother, but he hadn't called or visited or said _anything_ to either Sherlock or John since that day.

Sherlock, though he would never admit it, was starting to get worried.

"John, I'm going out." Sherlock abruptly stood from his chair and made his way to the door.

"Where to?" John asked, sipping tea and typing on his computer.

"To see Mycroft. He hasn't called or texted or _anything_ since everything happened." Sherlock replied, flipping the collar of his coat up and tying his scarf around his neck.

John looked up. "Wat me to come?" he asked.

"No, you're busy and I feel like he would be more open to…whatever he needs if I'm the only one there." Sherlock answered politely.

"Cheers. Have fun. Text me when you're on your way back so I can get some dinner together." With that, John turned back to his laptop, his mug of tea in his hand.

"I will." Sherlock swept out of the flat and down the stairs. He made his way out the door just in time to hail a cab that was driving by. Since he figured Mycroft wouldn't be at the office, he gave the cabbie his home address.

He pulled out his phone and looked at the details of the most recent case Lestrade had asked him to look at while he rode in the cab. The ride took a surprisingly short amount of time, and he was soon pulling up to the front of his brother's home.

He quickly paid the cabbie before hopping out and making his way to the door of the townhouse.

He knocked loudly and yelled through the door.

"Mycroft?!"

He heard rustling in the house before the door opened.

Mycroft sighed. "What do you want, Sherlock?" he asked, blocking his entrance into the house.

Not caring that his brother didn't want him inside, Sherlock pushed past Mycroft and made his way into the sitting room. He didn't sit, however.

"You haven't called or texted in the past three days. You also haven't randomly showed up at my flat or sent unmarked cars to pick up me or John. This would normally concern me a bit, since you love to be nosy and bother me, but it is especially worrisome after what happened with Eurus. I'm here to make sure you're okay." Sherlock replied.

Mycroft had followed Sherlock into the room, clearly annoyed, and sat down. He winced at Sherlock's last sentence.

"Why wouldn't I be, brother mine?" he asked.

"I don't know, Mycroft, you tell me. You didn't have to save your best friend from drowning in a well, where Eurus coincidently drowned my _last_ best friend. But then again you thought I was going to shoot you in the heart and kill you before I threatened to shoot myself. You deal with things differently than me, and I have someone there to help me with my process: John. You don't have anybody here to comfort you. Therefore, as a caring brother (and you best never tell anyone I said that), I'm here to make sure you're coping well." He took off his coat and scarf and threw them on the couch before sitting in the chair across from Mycroft.

Mycroft shuddered. "I'm fine."

"I don't believe you."

"I don't care."

"Well I do, Mycroft!" Sherlock yelled. "I care about you, and I want to make sure you're alright! But if you don't want my help then fine, suffer in silence!" Sherlock stood and made to grab his coat and scarf before he felt a hand on his arm.

"Sherlock, it's not…I'm just not good at this, you know that." Mycroft said.

"I'm aware, Mycroft, and neither am I. but I want to help you, and you don't seem to want me to." Sherlock replied.

"I just…" Mycroft sat back down in his chair and rubbed a hand through his hair. He wasn't wearing one of his usual four-piece suits, but a pair of dress pants and a sweater overtop a button-up shirt, which had the top two buttons undone like Sherlock always wore his shirts. The collar was poking out above the collar of the sweater. He had his umbrella propped up against his chair. His hair was messy, but no more than Sherlock expected, since he was staying home for the day. There were dark circles under Mycroft's eyes.

Sherlock slowly retook his seat, but he didn't relax into it.

"I don't know what's gotten into me, Sherlock. I'm not usually affected by these things, but I can't seem to continue with my daily life currently. I'm going mad." Mycroft admitted.

"Most of the time, the things you have to deal with don't involve your little brother pointing a gun at your heart, then turning it on himself. You have no reason to be…upset…by your reaction. It's natural. I went through the same thing, but it took me considerably less time to get through it, because I have John." Sherlock replied.

"I'm not a natural person, Sherlock. I don't have natural responses to things. This is odd, I don't like it." Mycroft snapped.

"No, you're not. But neither am I, and I go through the same things. Tell me, what exactly is driving you mad? What responses are you experiencing?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't see how that's your business." Mycroft snapped.

"I'm just trying to help." Sherlock replied heatedly.

"Why do you care?"

"Because you're my fucking brother, Mycroft, and I love and care about you." Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft sighed, and Sherlock knew he was going to get the answers he wanted. "I can't go to work. I just…can't. And I haven't been sleeping, because I keep dreaming about the events at Sherrinford. And I can't think straight. Memories of that night always interrupt my train of thought. It's driving me mad." Mycroft admitted. "And…I love you too, brother mine." He replied shyly.

Sherlock gave him a small smile before advising him on what to do. "You need to file away your memories of that night so they aren't actively on your mind."

Mycroft looked up at him, an incredulous look on his face. "How would you know?" he asked.

"Because the same thing was happening to me. I was waking up from nightmares and I couldn't think straight and I was getting massive headaches from all my repressed memories flooding my mind. The only reason I'm alright now is because John helped ground me while I retreated into my mind palace and filed away all the memories." Sherlock replied.

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow. "And how did he do that?" he asked.

"He had me lean back against him on the couch and he massaged my temples and shoulders and carded his fingers through my hair while I worked, grounding me. I never became frantic while looking through the memories because I could feel him touching me." Sherlock responded.

"Ugh, human contact." Mycroft faked a shiver.

"I used to feel the same way. But it seriously helped me. I'm no longer waking from nightmares, and I'm no longer getting massive headaches. I'm also receiving new cases from Lestrade and getting back into my day-to-day routine. Something you still have not managed to do, since you insist on dealing with everything by yourself." Sherlock stated. "Now, obviously, if you want my help, I'm not going to be doing that. But I can do something to ground you while you file away your memories."

Sherlock stood from his chair and made his way over to the couch. He picked up his coat and scarf and tossed them into the chair he was sitting in before. He sat and patted the seat next to him.

"Come here, Mycroft." He commanded.

"You really don't have to do this, Sherlock." Mycroft didn't move from his seat.

"I want to."

Slowly, Mycroft stood from his chair and made his way over to the couch, sitting to the right Sherlock. He was perched on the edge of his seat, while Sherlock was relaxed back into the cushions.

"Reach into your mind, brother, and take care of those memories so they aren't haunting you. I'll be right here." Sherlock reached across his body with his left hand and grasped Mycroft's left hand. He lifted the other to rest on Mycroft's left shoulder.

Mycroft looked at him curiously out of the corner of his eye before he closed both of them and entered his mind.

Since he didn't have repressed childhood memories like Sherlock, it only took him about forty minutes to file away the memories.

While he did this, Sherlock grasped his hand and rubbed circles on his back.

When he was finished, Mycroft cautiously opened his eyes to look at Sherlock, who was still grasping his hand and rubbing circles on his back.

"Thank you, brother mine." Sherlock stopped rubbing Mycroft's back and rested his hand on his brother's shoulder.

"You're welcome, Mycroft. It was the least I could do, after all you've done for me."


	5. Tears

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock, along with its characters, location, etc. are the property of BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own them, though I definitely wouldn't mind being on a first name basis with Benedict Cumberbatch ;)

 **A/N:** Finally got a new idea for a one-shot to add to this collection! In this one, Sherlock will become overwhelmed one day, recalling all of the things that happened during TFP. John will find him distressed and crying and will comfort him.

….

After The Well

….

Chapter 5

Tears

….

It had been two weeks since Sherlock, John, and Mycroft had been held prisoner at Sherrinford by Eurus Holmes. Two weeks since Sherlock was forced to relive those horrendous moments in his childhood when Eurus drowned his best friend and set fire to the family home.

Two weeks since Sherlock Holmes's world came crashing down around him.

He was standing in the kitchen, surrounded by one of his new experiments, when it happened. John had gone out to get some food and Mrs. Hudson was off at her sister's house. He was all alone, content with his science experiment, when it hit him.

All of a sudden, when he was sitting at the table staring into his microscope, everything came crashing down on top of Sherlock. He had already filed away most of the memories from that night, and the many nights from his childhood when Eurus tortured him, but they all suddenly came back to him, in a rush of emotion.

God, how she had hurt him.

He remembered how she had tormented him, making him scream out for his mother. How she had sang that song whenever he asked where his best friend had gone, what she had done with him. How she had drawn pictures of Sherlock's grave stone before setting the family home on fire.

And he remembered the events at Sherrinford. How she had forced him to condemn not one but three men to drowning at sea. How she had forced a kind man to kill himself to save his wife, then killed his wife anyway. How he had been tricked into hurting Molly. And how she had almost made him choose whether to kill his best friend or his brother.

And the fear…oh God, the fear. He was absolutely terrified that he would not solve her riddles in time, that he was condemning yet another best friend to death because his sister couldn't comprehend what was good and what was bad. He had almost lost John, and he never would have ben able to forgive himself if that would have happened.

When all of these memories came flooding back to Sherlock, especially the memory of the fear he had felt when his beloved doctor almost drowned, Sherlock was overwhelmed. Losing all of his usual composure, he grasped the top of the table until his knuckles were white, tears spilling out of his eyes hot and fast. Before he even knew what was happening, he had pushed his experiment aside and planted his elbows on the table, burying his face in his hands. Soon, full-blown sobs were escaping the usually cold detective.

He was stuck on the fact that he had almost lost John. God, how he loved John. He would have never been the same if he had lost his beloved blogger. John was everything to him. To think if he had died at the hands of Sherlock's deranged sister…

Another sob escaped the detective. He could never lose John. It just wasn't an option. He couldn't even imagine life without his doctor…

….

When John entered 221B Baker Street, it was to loud, strange noises coming from upstairs. Not knowing what he was going to find, he quickly kicked off his shoes and hung up his coat before grabbing the grocery bags and quickly making his way upstairs to his and Sherlock's flat.

What he saw was not what he expected.

Sherlock Holmes, the self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath, was crying. Sobbing, in fact. John quickly dropped the shopping onto the couch and made his way over to his best friend.

"Sherlock…?" John touched Sherlock's shoulder lightly.

Sherlock lifted his face from his hands and looked at the man next to him, tears still streaming heavily down his face. "John?" he croaked.

"Yeah, mate. What's wrong?" John questioned.

Instead of giving him an answer, Sherlock stood from his stool and wrapped his long arms tightly around his beloved blogger's shoulders.

Confused, but slightly content, John wasted no time in wrapping his arms around the taller man's waist.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" he muttered.

"I just…everything that happened with Eurus…I almost lost you…I _cannot_ lose you, John. God, I can't lose you." Sherlock sobbed.

John was a bit taken aback by the usual sentiment coming from his best friend, but he was determined to comfort the genius detective. "I'm here, mate. You haven't lost me." He soothed.

"But I came so close…I can't lose you like I lost Victor. It would crush me. You almost died, John…" Sherlock croaked. His voice broke at the end of the sentence.

"But I didn't. That's what matters. I'm here, Sherlock. And I promise, I'm not going anywhere." John whispered. Sherlock, of course, heard him, and redoubled his grip on the army doctor.

"God, I can't imagine what I put you through when I jumped, John. I never should have done that to you. I am so, so sorry…I'm starting to realize what it would be like to lose you, and I know that I did the same thing to you, for real, for two years. I never should have done that…" he rambled.

"Listen, Sherlock," John pulled out of the hug so he could look Sherlock in the eye, but he kept his hands on the detective's sides. "You're forgiven, all right? You did what you had to do. It's ancient history. We're fine. Eurus is back in her cell, Mycroft is recovering on his own, and we have each other. You haven't lost me." John reassured Sherlock before hugging him once again.

"God, John, I don't now what I'll do if I ever lose you. I couldn't bear it. Even the thought of your death makes me want to…" he trailed off, not wanting to talk about suicide when he had just been forgiven for faking it. Plus, he was still crying.

"And I don't think I could live if you died, Sherlock. We are too close now to ever be able to recover if we lost one another. But I think that's the wonderful thing about our friendship. It's the strongest friendship I've ever been in, ever witnessed, and I love it. I love you, Sherlock, and I will not leave you. I'm here."

Sherlock sniffed and held John even tighter than before. "And I love you, John Hamish Watson. I hope neither of us have to deal with the other's death anytime soon. I honestly don't think either of us would survive."

And with that, Sherlock briefly squeezed John before releasing him and sitting back down on the stool by the table, idly wiping at the tear racks on his face. He turned his full attention to his experiment.

John, content with Sherlock's state of mind, for the time being, got started putting the shopping away, before retiring to his chair with the newspaper.

Both men were exactly where they wanted to be: in 221B Baker Street, with each other. And that's all they would ever need.


End file.
